


I've got you deep in the heart of me

by kittysorceress



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First World War, Grindeldore Soulmate Zine, M/M, POV Alternating, Summer of 1899, Vignettes, War with Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 11:43:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20563742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittysorceress/pseuds/kittysorceress
Summary: One mind, one body, one heart.Two souls bound for eternity.Despite everything that comes between them through the decades, Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald are destined to be part of each other's life.





	I've got you deep in the heart of me

**Author's Note:**

> This work was produced as part of the Grindeldore Soulmate Zine. You can find the other amazing works [here](https://grindeldoresoulmatezine.tumblr.com/) as they are posted, and hold tight for the upcoming PDF Zine.
> 
> It's so wonderful to share this with you all at last! ❤
> 
> For those who are curious, the title is a lyric from the jazz standard _I've got you under my skin_ by Cole Porter, written in 1936.

It is 1899.

In a barn in Godric’s Hollow, on a hot August night, two young wizards make a vow.

One mind, one body, one heart.

Two souls bound for eternity.

~*~

It is 1907.

There are stretches of time in the first years after that fateful summer – sometimes just hours, sometimes days, sometimes whole weeks – where Albus nearly forgets about Gellert entirely.

They are blissful days where he is only Professor Dumbledore, the young Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, caught up with marking essays and soothing those little grievances his students bring to him with the weight of emotion heavy in their eyes. He is good at this, he knows – the witty comments in the margin next to a student’s brilliant insight on humanity in dark magical beings, the bowl of sweets on his desk ready for the next tear-stained second-year. He knows the right things to say and the right things to do, and if he plays his cards right, he might make Head of House within the decade, maybe even Deputy Headmaster…

But then, out of nowhere, he hears a sly laugh in the distance or sees a mop of golden hair flit around through a doorway, and something already broken inside shatters for the thousandth time.

He remembers with a start why he is here, at Hogwarts, rather than at the Ministry or in Paris with Flamel or in Eastern Europe with Ridgebit.

He remembers to tamp down on his ambitions, that nothing good came of his lust for power.

It is in these moments that he remembers, most of all, that he will never be free of Gellert.

~*~

It is 1914.

Gellert is on the Dalmatian Coast, meeting with the vampires about the possibility of a coalition, when the news arrives from Sarajevo.

He finds that it is remarkably easy, as the Great Muggle War breaks out in all its miserable and brutal glory, to prey upon the fears of wizardkind across the region: “If this is what Muggles do to each other, what might they do to you?”

He has Seen what is to come.

He knows how much more suffering will be wrought in the coming decades. He has known for _so long_ and only now, as it begins, does anyone really believe him.

If only Albus had believed him.

~*~

It is 1916.

Albus starts to hear rumours from the continent, from his peers returning from the war effort.

They say that an intense young man has been visiting the wizarding camps, spreading anti-Muggle sentiment and warning them away from interfering or assisting in a battle which is not their own. Most brush the man off as a Ministry plant, sent by Evermonde in a last-ditch attempt to enforce his unpopular legislation.

Albus pricks up his ears to the gossip, memories flooding back of candlelit nights and meticulously detailed plans. He tries to convince himself that it must be some other young man, that there is no way that… _he_… would risk visiting the Front and traipse around in the muddy trenches. That there is no way that _he _would continue the quest without him.

But when Henry Potter returns from France one blustery November afternoon, he comes bearing news of the man’s name, and everything Albus had tried to convince himself about his erstwhile lover falls to the wayside.

It is a name that Albus hasn’t spoken aloud in nearly twenty years, and he repeats it back slowly, rolling the Germanic consonants and vowels through his mouth as though he had never heard it before in his life: “Gellert Grindelwald?”

“That’s it. They say he’s a skilled legimens and he’s got powerful Sight too, if you hold stock in that sort of thing,” Potter comments with a matter-of-fact tone that turns Albus’ stomach. “He’s got this persuasive personality and a bit of an air to him, you know, all gleaming gold hair shining through the blood and the muck of war, captivating the purebloods with the promise of a future of peace and prosperity. Telling them all about the Greater Good or some such nonsense.”

Albus recognises his own words – written in the heat and lust of that awful summer – returned to haunt him.

When they part ways, Potter heads off with a spring in his step, pleased to have delivered such vital intelligence, and Albus’ cheerful face belies the bile in his throat and the dread in his heart.

He wonders how many more people might be taken in by that gleaming gold hair and persuasive personality before they, too, suffer the consequences.

~*~

It is 1922.

The war is long over, though the fight has barely begun.

Gellert stands in front of the Spanish Ministry of Magic and breathes deeply. He grips the Elder Wand tighter underneath his robes.

The time has come.

There is no going back from this moment.

And yet it seems… somewhat anticlimactic. He has Seen it so many times, in so many futures. A never-ending web of possibilities, always leading to this spot.

This is the start of it all.

He had once thought that Albus would be here with him – a distant summer of Visions and the dreams in the years since had teased to him as much – but the day has come and he is alone in the autumn rain.

He draws his wand out from the folds of fabric and calls forth spells of destruction and desolation, putting into motion events which will one day see him grand ruler of the Wizarding World.

Or imprisoned.

Or dead.

Or all three, he’s not quite sure yet.

What he does See, in that web of possibilities, is that Albus is waiting for him on the other side of all of this. Albus will be there at the end.

It is that promise of reunion that drives him now.

After 23 years, Gellert has come to understand that he will never know love again like he did in Godric’s Hollow that summer. The pendant in his pocket is a constant reminder, a cold facsimile of a feeling he that he would do almost anything in his power to feel again in the flesh. Except actually going to Albus, of course.

He doubts he would be well-received, terror act in Madrid or no, and after this little incident, going anywhere near someone in such a position of authority will be tantamount to handing oneself in.

Gellert is not the kind of man to give up on his ambitions so easily, not even in the name of love.

~*~

It is 1927.

A niffler is stealing the good teaspoons. Its handler is oblivious, its host indifferent.

“Let me get this straight… you’re telling me that he was your friend?”

Albus has held the Blood Pact pendant tight in his hand as he recounted the story to Newt Scamander, tight enough that the sharp pain from the edges digging into his skin dulls to a throbbing ache which matches the one in his heart.

He sighs heavily and doesn’t meet the younger man’s gaze as he replies, “I thought him to be. I don’t know if has Grindelwald ever truly had a friend, though I think he cared for me in his own way.”

“But why did you do it, Dumbledore? I thought you were so much cleverer than this.”

“I had no idea about the darkness of the ritual. I didn’t understand how our souls would be inexorably linked,” Albus pauses now, a little taken aback by the brazenness of his own lie.

It was _precisely _the solemn and binding nature of the ritual which had convinced his eighteen-year-old self to go through with Gellert’s strange proposal. He had been certain then that the Blood Pact would ensure that no person in the world could ever separate them – a physical manifestation of their unity.

One mind, one body, one heart.

He hasn’t shared the whole truth, not nearly. Mistakes have been made and must be put to rights, and Albus is no longer sure that covering his tracks will assist in the cause.

He looks up at Newt and, seeing that there is only compassion and trust in his eyes, resolves to start making amends here and now.

“No, that’s not true. I don’t wish to insult your intelligence. I may have been young… and more than a little foolish… but I knew exactly what it was that Grindelwald and I were doing.”

As Albus shares his story to the first person he has dared to tell, the tea sits cold and forgotten between them.

~*~

It is 1930.

The crocus flowers scatter the meadow below Nurmengard in purples and whites and yellows. The beautiful landscape is framed by the wide window of the library where Gellert is ruminating on the finer details of alchemic transfiguration in corporeal forms.

“Herr Grindelwald? Sir? I have your coffee,” a timid American voice breaks him from his reverie.

Gellert turns to see Queenie Goldstein, done up in her usual fashion of soft velvets and silks, placing the pot and the cup on the small table beside his armchair. Her shyness suggests that his face has taken on his habitual intense gaze of introspection, so he summons up a smile in thanks and the woman’s nervousness visibly melts away as she smiles in return.

“I didn’t realise you had returned from Berlin already. Was your trip successful, my dear?”

“It was a bum steer,” she complains, sinking into the window seat dejectedly, “By the time me and Vinda got to the joint last night, it was cleared out. Totally empty! No sign of that contact or any other living soul at all. But we’ve got some other leads still, so we’ll maybe give them a try tonight.”

Gellert pours the coffee from the pot, inhaling its warm and inviting scent, before conjuring a second cup for Queenie and passing it to her.

“It is disappointing, but not unexpected. Albus Dumbledore has friends in all manner of places and there will be times when his network will outsmart our own. Do not dwell on this failure, Queenie, it is not yours to bear alone. We will do better next time.”

They drink their coffee in silence, gazing down on the field below. The spring blossoms make Gellert nostalgic for the warmth of summer, days lazing in grassy meadows, young love…

“Have you heard from that gentleman of yours recently?”

Queenie looks at him, her face tinged with a particular kind of sadness which Gellert recognises all too well.

“No, not for months now. Not since he sent a note begging me to come back for Tina’s wedding. Too late now, I suppose, even if I did want to go. They’ll be on their honeymoon already and I’m sure Jacob’s back in New York by now,” she sighs, turning to look out of the window once more. “You know, when Jacob writes, he always tells me ‘sorry’. Sorry for calling me crazy, sorry for not taking me seriously…”

“Have you written back to him?”

“Of course not. It’s no use. He won’t come over to our cause and I can’t go back to New York. I can’t go around pretending that nothing is wrong with the life I was leading.”

Gellert can hear the ache in her voice now. He moves to join her at the window, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Next time he writes – and he _will _write – I want you to send him a response. Not for our cause, but for your own. Love, the greatest cause of all.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.” He squeezes her shoulder gently, a brotherly gesture, and replies with the weight of thirty years of regret in his voice, “I made a mistake once, when I was younger than you are even now, of putting the Greater Good above the love of the person who knew me better than anyone in the world. Learn from my failures, Queenie. It can be possible to serve more than one cause, particularly when the other cause is love.”

~*~

It is 1935.

Albus is browsing a shelf of cookery books in a store in Muggle London when the blonde woman appears beside him and hands over a box filled with vials of memories.

“As promised,” she says by way of greeting before plucking _Joy of Cooking _from the shelf in front of her and flicking through the pages. “It’s all there. Every memory of every conversation with him, as well as everything I… well… overheard others thinking about when I wasn’t exactly meant to be… you know… listening in on them.”

He rifles through the box as discreetly as possible, despite knowing that his disillusionment and muffling spells are second-to-none, and marvels at the sheer number inside, each labelled with a date and subject in impeccable, tiny handwriting.

More than any of his other spies have collected the past five years combined. More than he ever dreamed when Tina Scamander first came to him to plead for a pardon for her sister in return for information.

“This is splendid work, Miss Goldstein, truly splendid.”

“What can I say? I had a good motivation,” she flushes a deep crimson as she returns the book to the shelf and turns to him in earnest, “Do you think it will be enough to satisfy your Ministry?”

“They’re hardly _my _Ministry. But, while we rarely see eye-to-eye, I am fairly certain that your contribution to the fight against Grindelwald is more than enough for them to overlook your… indiscretions. Particularly as you will confined to the care and protection of Mr and Mrs Scamander for the time being.”

He closes the lid of the box and places it carefully under his arm.

“Is that all, Professor?” Queenie asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet with nervous energy, “It’s only Tina is going to pick up Jacob from the railway station and I want to be there when she brings him home. I’ve… that is… we’ve got a lot of time to catch up on, is all.”

Albus laughs, turning on his heel and walking towards the door. He is amused by how young she seems, how eager she is to see her lover. “Far be it from me to stand in your way,” he calls back over his shoulder. “After all, what greater cause is there than love?"

“You’re very similar, the two of you. You and Herr Grindelwald,” Queenie muses, “Who’d’ve thought?”

Albus stops mid step, the glass of the vials rattling delicately in the box. He can feel the Blood Pact pendant, hidden and burning cold against his chest, as he turns to face Queenie.

“What do you mean?” What he really wants to say is _What do you know?_

But she only smiles at him, bright and pure and full of joy.

“He says that too, that love is the greatest cause of all. You know, I think it’s the only one of his ideologies that I ever really believed in.”

~*~

It is 1937.

In the July sunshine, under the large oak tree in the Scamander’s garden, a marriage ceremony ten years in the making finally takes place. It is a heart-warming affair. Queenie is luminous, Jacob beaming. Their family, friends and colleagues in attendance all laugh and cry in equal measure as the vows are said.

Perhaps surprisingly, in spite of his less-than-stellar personal experience of romance, Albus has always liked weddings. There’s something he finds so comforting about being surrounded by so much good will and love, especially in such dark times as these.

During the reception that evening, he happily sits with Minerva at a small table in the marquee, watching the party-goers forget their cares and lose themselves to the joy of the occasion through wine and song. He and Minerva are only marginally more dignified.

Albus realises that his champagne flute is empty roughly around the same time he catches a glimpse of one of the American guests watching them in return. He asks Minerva to fill his glass as he takes in the man’s dark hair and robes, each run through with hints of white, his pale skin and his serious expression.

Minerva clicks her tongue at him scoldingly, but pours the champagne into his raised flute anyway, slopping it over the rim and down his hand. “You’ll be sozzled before you know it if you’re not careful.”

“_I’ll _be sozzled?” he laughs, shaking the spilled liquid from his fingers before making a subtle gesture of greeting towards their observer. “That man in the dark robes, the one over by the cake. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that Percival Graves is looking our way.”

She peers around the whole marquee, as though looking for anyone other than the new Vice-President of MACUSA, her eyes widening when she sees him. Her lack of subtlety astounds Albus. He makes a mental note to discuss the art of subterfuge with her another evening, perhaps when they’re not one-and-a-half bottles deep between them.

“You’re not wrong. As usual,” she declares, taking another sip from her own glass and leaning towards him conspiratorially before adding, “So you haven’t spoken him yet?”

“He disappeared after the ceremony, I didn’t have the chance. I really am fascinated to meet him at last,” Albus replies, smiling at the man.

The man in the dark robes doesn’t smile back. Instead, he fixes Albus with a strangely intense gaze and then walks out into the garden.

Something in Albus’ stomach drops as he instinctively raises his hand to his breast pocket, to feel the outline of the pendant under his shirt.

_No. He wouldn’t. Not again._

He lurches to his feet, knocking the table, and Minerva tips out nearly half her glass in surprise.

“I’m… I… I’m going to get some fresh air,” he falters, the colour rising in his cheeks, his heart beating fast.

He barely hears Minerva’s intoxicated giggle as he pushes through the crowd and out into the garden to follow the man, wand drawn. The night outside the marquee is cool and softly damp with the promise of rain to come in the morning. And it is calm. Too calm.

He feels suddenly and completely sober.

When Albus reaches the high brick wall at the boundary of the property, well out of hearing distance of the party, he finds the man perched on the ledge, looking out towards the forest. The dark outer robe of his outfit lies discarded and rumpled at the foot of the wall. There is a lit cigarette at the man’s lips, and his wand arm is obscured in the shadows.

The visual likeness to Percival Graves is uncanny, but the posture is unmistakably _other_.

“Expelliarmus!” Albus hears his voice weaker and thinner than he expected, as he casts the spell.

Nothing happens, the man is unmoved. There is only the flickering light and shadow of the party-goers near the house, the faint strain of music from the band, the calm breeze of the evening.

“How times have changed,” the man says bitterly. He turns his face into the light, his hands raised in surrender, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. “I am unarmed. Think of tonight as… a cease-fire.”

Albus keeps his wand pointed towards the man.

“Why should I trust you?” he spits at him, his voice wavering, barely holding back the ‘_again_’ at the tip of his lips. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t raise the alarm right now.”

“I should ask why you haven’t already,” the man replies, waving a hand across his face, “I am not here for you, or for your supporters. I swear, I mean you no harm.”

Though he knows what to expect after the man’s gesture, Albus still watches in astonishment as the enchantment falls from his face.

The man perched on the wall is not the Gellert Grindelwald that Albus has pieced together in his mind’s eye – rosy memories of youth clouded over by regret and disgust, supplemented through the years by newspaper clippings and memories stolen from other wizards. This Gellert is flesh and blood and bone. This Gellert is _real_. This Gellert is _here_.

Albus can feel his heart breaking all over again as Gellert looks down at him with an intensity he never thought he would see again. Much to his own shock, he lets his wand arm drop. Despite everything, he realises he _does _still hold some small amount of trust in him, however misguided it may be.

Gellert speaks again after a moment, softer now. “I only wanted to see Queenie and her new husband. I had hoped that I could come and go without detection, but I realise now that nothing is beneath your notice. Perhaps I don’t wear Graves’ face as well as I once did? Besides,” he pauses meaningfully, “I think there is an item in your possession which may… complicate… any attempt at a confrontation between us for the time being.”

_He’s right_, _damn him_, Albus thinks bitterly, feeling the Blood Pact pendant against his skin.

As Gellert puts out the last of his cigarette against the brick, Albus unexpectedly recalls a night, nearly 40 years ago, when a younger Gellert had waited for him on a rooftop with a bottle of wine and a telescope.

“I don’t suppose you have a bottle of Bordeaux up there with you this time?” he hears the teasing words fall from his mouth.

Gellert smiles that stunning, golden smile which has afflicted Albus’ dreams, though it is shaded with something that looks a little bit like disappointment and is framed in a much older face than the one in his memories. “Not this time, no.”

That smile causes Albus’ chest to contract. In that moment, he realises just how many years have passed, how even this small truce cannot turn wrongs to rights.

The silence stretches between them before being broken by Queenie’s loud and unmistakable laugh from the marquee, and they both look towards its origin.

“You know that I am not an imbecile, Albus. I knew she was one of yours almost as soon as she started gathering those vials of memories and snippets of information, no matter how good she was at shielding her mind.”

“I thought the intelligence she brought us was too good to be true,” Albus admits, cocking his head to the side, “Except, of course, that it _was _true more often than not.”

“I suppose I wanted you to know a little of what we were doing. I always held out hope, especially in those early years, that you would see the errors in your ways and come to me.”

With that, Gellert leaps down from the wall and moves close to Albus. Close enough to touch. Close enough that, for any other man, it would be an intimidation. But no, this is _intimacy_, and Albus feels like mouth grow dry when he recognises it, his mind foggy with intoxication which he doubts has anything to do with the champagne from earlier. He can smell the cigarette smoke on Gellert’s breath as it ghosts against his cheek.

“I would never, not after what happened,” he whispers, afraid of what might happen next. Although something deep inside his soul longs to reach out and touch, to recombine, to find that love again, he stands firm. “But you must know that I can’t keeping say no to the Ministry. One day, I’ll have no choice and I _will_ have to find you.”

Gellert seems unphased, moving almost imperceptibly closer, “I know. I’ve Seen it.”

“It will be a battle, Gellert,” Albus warns shakily, “More than a teenagers’ duel this time. There will be no escape for you.”

“Oh, I count on it,” Gellert replies and closes the distance between them, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips and a gentle hand on his chest.

But before Albus has a chance to deepen the kiss, before he can pull him close or run his hands through those still-golden curls, the charm is broken and all that stands before him is empty air. The tell-tale _crack_ of disapparation rings in his ears as he staggers backwards, startled and ashamed.

He grasps for the pendant under his shirt, relief flooding him as he finds it still secure on the chain around his neck. It is a mere emblem, he realises now, a talisman of his stupidity and his failures. The blood magic which lead to its creation is the only true barrier to Gellert’s defeat.

Destroying the pendant will not change the past. It will not change his memories or his regrets.

It will not change the joyous love he felt then, nor the stranger, sadder love he still feels after all this time.

He knows what he has to do.

~*~

It is 1945.

On a desolated plain, amid the fog of war, two great wizards are locked in the duel of the century.

Two souls bound for eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as musicalmskitty - come and say hi!


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